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  At one point in the closing minutes, the Chinese had an opportunity to break the deadlock. After the Americans had allowed the ball to roll out of bounds on the sidelines deep in their own territory, the Chinese corner kicker booted the ball back into play at an angle that spun inward through the air and then tailed down within reach of two Chinese players who stood ready to kick or head it in for a score. But before they could get to it, the American goalie leaped forward with a clenched fist to punch it away, clobbering not only the ball but also the head of a teammate with such force that the American girl was knocked sprawling to the ground. Unconscious for a few moments, and unable to maintain her balance after being helped to her feet, the groggy American was carried away and was never able to reenter the contest. Her substitute filled in well enough, however, and the game continued without further scoring opportunities from either side until the clock expired.

  After a brief respite, during which the two eleven-player teams huddled separately along the sidelines, drinking water and talking to their coaches, the referees waved them back onto the field for fifteen minutes of overtime—which from then on would both extend and heighten the spectators’ expectations and their noise level as they sat forward in their seats, observing the ongoing foot-to-foot combat that went back and forth on this grassy turf that measured 116 by 72 yards and was rimmed by big-business billboards—Coca-Cola, MasterCard, Fuji film, Bud Light—and that earlier in the day had been buzzed from above by four streaking U.S. F-18 fighter planes that were perhaps trying to communicate to any of the Chinese spies in the crowd, or their bosses back in Beijing, that such jets were part of Uncle Sam’s answer to China’s potential military aggression along the coastal areas of Taiwan.

  The people of Taiwan were now, in fact, completing a half century of isolation from mainland China, having first become a self-governing entity under Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek following the latter’s military defeat by Mao’s forces and his escape to the island in 1949. Arriving with what was left of his downtrodden Kuomintang army and nearly a million mainland refugees and all of China’s gold reserves, the Generalissimo subsequently established Taiwan as a small but stalwart abutment against communism while he continued to see himself as the legitimate leader of the mainland, from which he had been so rudely removed. When he died in 1975, he left behind a people made more secure through United States support and with a standard of living higher than that of their counterparts on the mainland, but neither he nor his political successors could restore his notions of grandeur, and the Taiwanese women who played on the island’s soccer team in 1999 were a level below the Chinese now playing in the Rose Bowl. Not only the Taiwanese but all the teams of Asia—the Japanese, the North and South Koreans, the Thais, and the rest—were inferior to the soccer women of China, and had been so for nearly a decade.

  However, the Chinese were now being tested on the other side of the world by this more physical force from the United States while being surrounded by a partisan crowd consisting of spectators cloaked in the Stars and Stripes, and by confetti-tossing teenagers with their faces painted red, white, and blue, and by an energy-sapping sun and the 105-degree heat under a stadium sky jet-streamed with jingoism. Still, the Chinese women kept pace with the United States through the overtime period, and they nearly won the game in the tenth minute when one of their players headed a ball over the American goalkeeper, and were it not for a spectacular save near the back line by a leaping American defender, the ball would have penetrated the net.

  With neither team staging another serious attack during the remaining five minutes, nor during the second fifteen-minute overtime period that followed—fatigue was slowing down many of the women, especially those who had performed without substitutes during this grueling and sweltering ordeal that had so far lasted two hours—the referees ordered that the outcome be resolved by penalty kicks, a situation in which five women from each side would be selected by their coaches to take turns trying to kick a ball spotted twelve yards in front of the net into the goal that was guarded by the rival team’s goalkeeper.

  The odds were always with the kickers, since it is very difficult for a defender standing alone to react quickly enough to block a hard-hit shot booted at such close range toward a net that is eight feet high and eight yards wide, practically the size of a two-car garage. Still, scoring was not automatic—errant shots sometimes did occur due to a combination of factors that might include the nervousness or carelessness of the kicker, or the defensive acrobatics and/or good guesswork of the goalkeeper.

  The World Cup winner would now be decided while the majority of the players stood watching along the sidelines as their five appointed teammates, alternating with five opponents, would singularly appear on the western end of the field and place the ball on a white spot in the grass in front of the net, and then, after stepping back several paces, and after the referee had blown the whistle, each player in turn would run toward the ball and kick it in a way she hoped would elude the outstretched hands and moving body of the goalkeeper and land somewhere within the net. If each of the teams’ five kickers were successful, resulting in a 5-5 tie, the coaches would then summon a sixth member to go one-on-one against a rival; and if these two also scored, they would be succeeded by another pair of competitors, and then another and another if necessary, until one of the two had faltered as a result of missing the net or having the ball blocked. This title match could not end in a draw. The kicks would continue indefinitely until there was a winner and a loser. It would be demoralizing and heartbreaking for the individual who would ultimately fail to get her penalty kick into the net, knowing that she alone would be responsible for the defeat of her entire team, but this would inevitably be the fate of one of these women on this day in the Rose Bowl.

  Since the Chinese won the coin toss, they were the first to send a kicker onto the field. She was a round-faced, ponytailed brunette who wore the number 5 and seemed to be a bit taller and sturdier than her characteristically petite teammates. She was not, however, as imposing in appearance as the burly 150-pound black American goalkeeper who stood in front of her, staring at her, although the Chinese girl paid little attention as she slowly lowered the ball with both hands and positioned it on the white grass spot that marked the twelve-yard target site. She was said to be China’s most reliable penalty kicker, which was why the coach had assigned her ahead of the others, expecting her to get his team off to a good start. She was also functioning with full energy, since she had not played long in today’s heat, having entered the game as a substitute late in the second overtime. After hearing the referee’s whistle, she charged the ball and kicked it so swiftly and surely that the American goalie could only watch it sail high over her own right shoulder into the left corner of the net. As the kicker’s teammates and the coaches clapped along the sidelines, China took a 1-0 lead.

  The first American kicker was the team captain, wearing number 4, a lanky chestnut-haired woman with delicately refined facial features and the reputation for being an indelicate and indefatigable defender. But she would also prove to be a surefooted kicker on this occasion, unhesitatingly attacking the ball and driving it low and hard past China’s goalie into the opposite side of the net that the first Chinese kicker had hit. Jubilantly, after watching her ball slam into the cords, the American pumped her fist in the air and then jogged back to the sidelines while most of the stadium’s crowd stood cheering and her teammates came forward to embrace her. The score was now 1-1.

  The second Chinese kicker was a slender brunette who wore number 15. She had seen action earlier in the game as a substitute and was not a key player on the team except in times like this. She was an excellent penalty kicker. Some of her teammates considered her the equal of their premier penalty converter, the surefire number 5. I had read that there were some fine players among the Chinese—and among the Americans and other teams, as well—who had stage fright when confronting penalty-kick situations. They were more comfortable running and
kicking while surrounded by crowds of scrambling opponents than they were when standing alone behind an unmoving ball spotted on the grass and having to boot it twelve yards toward a spacious net that was guarded by a solitary defender in a one-on-one matchup being scrutinized by every fan in the stadium and perhaps millions of watchers on television. There were players who practically begged their coaches not to select them for the penalty spotlight, which could subject them to such vast humiliation should their booted ball be blocked or, worse, should they fail to hit the net.

  But the second kicker for China, the reputably unflappable number 15, was known within the team as being a rather narcissistic young woman who welcomed as much attention as she could get and was a very focused performer when all eyes were upon her; and so after she had taken her running start and had struck the ball cleanly to her left, she paused to watch with apparent satisfaction as it glided beyond the goalie’s fingertips and went crashing into the cords, bringing smiles from her coach and her teammates, if not from the overwhelmingly pro-American assemblage in the stands. Then she turned around and trotted back to the sidelines in an unhurried stride that suggested to me both self-assurance and a lingering interest in being watched. And so China had regained the lead, 2-1.

  The second kicker for the United States was also known for exhibiting poise under pressure, and, while not renowned for being self-absorbed, she acquitted herself well when in center-stage situations. She was a thirty-one-year-old Californian who wore number 14 and had been a U.S. team leader for nearly a decade, having taken leave from the sport only intermittently to bear two children and to recover from a broken right leg suffered while competing in 1995. Although her forte was defense—it was she who singularly stopped the Chinese from scoring during this game’s first overtime by leaping into the net to deflect a shot that had sailed over the head of the U.S. goalkeeper—she was also formidable on the attack, having scored the third goal in her team’s 3-2 triumph over Germany during the quarter-final round of this World Cup. Now, as a penalty kicker, she approached the ball slowly but with practiced deliberation and deception, freezing the Chinese goalkeeper in a fixed position near the middle of the box while the ball soared into the net yards beyond the goalie’s upraised left hand. And so the score was again tied, 2-2.

  The third kicker for China was a twenty-five-year-old native of Beijing who had close-cropped black hair and a straight-lined figure, and she wore the number 13. She had been a member of the national squad for six years, and a starting player for the past two, developing into a scoring threat as well as a steadfast defender. Her versatility and diligence meant that, except when she was injured, she was not replaced by a substitute if the score was close, and on this afternoon in the Rose Bowl, she had been active during each and every minute of this long and debilitating test of wills and tenacity.

  As she prepared for her penalty kick—the announcer introduced her as Liu Ying, it being one of the few Chinese names I could pronounce—she was being watched by the stout and sturdy American goalkeeper, Briana Scurry, who stood waiting twelve yards in front of her in a crouched and challenging stance. Briana Scurry had been a youth-league football player in her hometown of Minneapolis, and later a high school trackster and basketball player as well as an outstanding performer in this sport of soccer, for which she would win a scholarship to the University of Massachusetts. Beginning in 1994, she would achieve whatever distinction went with being the one black woman on the otherwise all-white starting lineup of the U.S. national team. She once described herself to a reporter as “the fly in the milk.” In a New York Times article that was published a few weeks after this game, she recalled that when the third Chinese kicker, the aforementioned Liu Ying, had positioned herself behind the ball, “Her body language didn’t look very positive. It didn’t look like she wanted to take it. I looked up at her and said, ‘This one is mine.’ ”

  The Times article also reported that during this crucial moment, Briana Scurry had decided to try to limit Liu Ying’s effectiveness by defending against her improperly, moving forward a couple of steps in front of the net even before Liu Ying’s foot had touched the ball, reducing the angle of the kick. This was a goalkeeper’s ploy that Briana Scurry and other teams’ goalies occasionally resorted to, hoping it would offset some of the disadvantage of being on the receiving end of what goalkeepers often compare to Russian roulette. Sometimes the referee’s whistle signaled a goalkeeper’s unauthorized movement, allowing the shooter a second chance if the ball had not gone into the net. At other times the referees failed to see, or were too uncertain to confidently call, an infraction; it was frequently very difficult to determine if a goalkeeper had stepped forward a split second before the kicker’s toe had touched the ball. With regard to Briana Scurry in the Rose Bowl, it appeared to some reporters and other onlookers that she had moved forward ahead of time against the first Chinese penalty kicker, number 5, but there had been no whistle—and number 5 had made her shot anyway.

  But China’s third kicker, Liu Ying, was less fortunate. Her shot was not well hit. Her footwork seemed to be tentative during her approach. Perhaps she was distracted by Scurry’s movement, if the latter had moved too early. There had not been a whistle. Still, Scurry instinctively sensed or rightly guessed that the ball would be coming to her left side, and as it sailed off Liu Ying’s right foot, Scurry was already leaping toward it, her outstretched body surging through the air parallel to the ground with both of her arms fully extended and the fingers of her gloved hands elongated and rigid until being bent back by the force of the ball, which was nevertheless deflected and sent bouncing inconsequentially toward the sidelines.

  As Scurry fell heavily to the turf—she said later that as she lay in pain she feared she’d chipped a hipbone and mangled a stomach muscle—she was immediately revived by the applause that surrounded her and the sight of far-flung confetti and the enthusiasm of her teammates jumping and hugging one another near the bench. Scurry leaped to her feet and pumped her arms several times while the captain of the U.S. team raised her own index finger above her high-browed forehead, signaling perhaps that the Americans were now alone at the top.

  If this was the captain’s intention, it was a premature gesture. The game was not over. It was true, however, that if all the remaining shooters (the three Americans and the two Chinese) were successful, the final tally would favor the Americans, 5-4, and the World Cup trophy would become the property of the United States.

  Ultimately, this is what happened. China’s last two kickers—number 7 and number 9—both aimed accurately beyond Scurry’s reach, the first player shooting to the right, the second to the left. But the trio of Americans—which included Mia Hamm, who shot fourth—were also flawless. The American who made the fifth and decisive kick was number 6, Brandi Chastain, a ponytailed blond Californian with a suntanned and gracefully delineated muscular figure that Gear magazine had photographed in the nude (“Hey, I ran my ass off for this body” was her response to the media; “I’m proud of it”). After she had blasted her winning shot to the left side of the lunging Chinese goalkeeper, Chastain pulled off her shirt and fell to her knees in front of the net, wearing a black sports bra as she clenched her fists in a triumphant pose that would make the cover of the next issue of Newsweek under the headline GIRLS RULE!

  I stood in front of my television set without elation as the victorious U.S. team continued to celebrate on the field, and I kept watching as the roving eye of the camera zoomed in on the stadium’s multitudes of American revelers with their smiling and patriotically painted faces and their party hats and horns, embracing and kissing—it was a midsummer prelude to New Year’s Eve, and overlooking the scene was a big balloon, the Goodyear blimp. But my own thoughts were now concentrated on an individual who had disappeared from the screen, the young woman from China, Liu Ying, who had missed her kick.

  I imagined her at this moment sitting tearfully in the locker room. Nothing in the life of this young woman of twenty-
five could have prepared her for what she must have been feeling, for never in the history of China had a single person so suddenly been embarrassed in front of so many people—including 100 million from her home country. Was she surrounded now in the locker room by sympathetic teammates? Was she sitting in isolation after being rebuked by her coach? Was the coach at fault for selecting her as a kicker when he might have known that she was too physically exhausted and mentally distracted to meet the test? Would the bureaucrats who ruled over the Party’s sports apparatus soon replace the coach? If he retained his job, and if Liu Ying were not demoted from the national team, would the coach choose her in the future to take a penalty kick in an important game?

  I was asking questions as if I were a born-again sportswriter with access to the locker room, and if I were, she would have been my story, she who would probably not sleep tonight and might forever be haunted by the remembrance of her woeful moment in the sun while much of the world was watching. Or was I overdramatizing, overstating the sensibilities of this young athlete? Among the supposed strengths of a successful athlete is the capacity to overcome one’s shortcomings and mistakes by not dwelling upon them, by not obsessing over them, by forgetting them, and—quoting the tiresome term of the 1990s—moving on. And yet it seemed to me that Liu Ying’s failed penalty kick was momentous and heartrending in ways well beyond the blown save by Mariano Rivera of the Yankees, and even the pounding humiliation that I can recall watching decades ago as it was being inflicted by Muhammad Ali upon Floyd Patterson.